


Everyone's Got Something

by beautifullyheeled



Series: Orange Sky Trilogy [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Ending, Canon Divergence - The Reichenbach Fall, Logophilia, M/M, POV study, Writer Perogative
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-16
Updated: 2013-06-16
Packaged: 2017-12-15 03:54:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/845001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beautifullyheeled/pseuds/beautifullyheeled
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Reichenbach. Every chapter is different POV. Things have been changed, so not exactly in line with S2E3.</p>
<p>What Sherlock does John must undo. Why does the consultant never consult? He always misses something...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Everyone's Got Something

**Author's Note:**

> Be aware, logophilia ahead. This is Sherlock's POV after all. Everything in italics is mind palace. 
> 
> (my beautiful beta is going to mame me, I know it)

 

_Everyone’s got something_

_something no one else can do_

_something no one else can see_

_and i want you_

_want you to know_

_all i have is you_

_all i need is you_

_all i want is you_

_everyone’s got something_

_darling now that you’ve got me_

_tell me that you want me to_

_and i want you_

_and i want you to know_

_all i have is you_

_all i need is you_

_all i want is you_

_Everyone’s Got Something ~ Perrin Lamb_

 

Dawn was breaking the still sleep dark horizon as he sat contemplating four moves ahead of the events yet to pass. He knew the game would be deadly, Moriarty had promised them that back at the municipal pool full of pinpoint accurate targeting and that unforgivable vest. The beginning move perpetrated, _C4O_ , the end game, _zugzwang_ , was assuredly on the horizon just as the heliocentric planet danced it’s orbit in the depths of true night.

The crows have flown, the messages flung far across his city, he would not be able to cross over even if  he had wings to fly. Dicrurus macrocercus, _Dicruridae_ , was the only response of import. John had come, been a marvelous addition to the unfolding tragedy worthy of so much larger a stage, _Amphitheatrum Flavium_ , than the familiar laboratory the two had seized into service. Clinically bare resistentialism no longer welcoming, he had but to close his eyes to imagine his doctor there to make it bearable.

_Sentiment_ , it was, indeed, going to be his downfall.

I’M WAITING -JM

 

_Rest, staccato, quarter-speed._

Physical exertion of muscle fed by his lifesblood as he purposely brought himself to full-height of his frame. Hands find themselves pressing down his impeccable clothing, fingers working the button into it’s proper place. Not one thing would be out of sorts for this meeting of minds, _consensus ad idem_ , all excess tightened or loosed. Forward motion was his only recourse, _Seirawan 2003 1-85744-348-9_ , the end upon them both.

One elevator, twenty-seven treads, and one final door later he arrived on the roof witness to a clear masterful sunrise. There would be little time left until it was full light, both metaphorical and physical. The air was biting within his lungs as they refused to fully expand arguing with the motion of sinew and bone. Moriarty held his phone loftily as to assure he had heard the tune, _Stayin’ Alive BeeGee’s_ , in direct opposition as to his real intentions. His opponent once again using reference to the end game.

“It’s boring, isn’t it?” The words spilled noxious from Moriarty’s chapped lips. “It’s just staying... and now I’ve beaten you. You’re boring... _ordinary_ , Sherlock. Such a disappointment.” The mastermind paced himself, redressing all of the flaws that Moriarty believed his opponent had his hands conducting the orchestrated scene before them, elaborate and timed.  “No, no, this is too easy, Sherlock. Too easy of a close for you, at least you’ve chosen an appropriately fitting venue.”

“Our final act?” He raised his voice enough to be heard over the wind that had whipped up over the past several seconds. The chilled eddies playing along his body beneath his coat, his dark hair ruffled reminding him of John’s fingers quieting his frisson mind. Moments came flashing into view, numerous and gentle. Refocusing on the task he found his voice once more. “Yes, my suicide, quite right. What incentive do I have? None. _I_ will end _you_.”

“Oh, I think not dearest. Mind your mouth, _Daddy’s had enough now_... off you pop.”

“Grimm stories have always had a properly gruesome ending have they not? Being moralities, as they were also had the orchestrator, not always those involved, coming to their end.”

“Oh, you haven’t heard the best part!” Moriarty squeals in pure unadulterated glee. “You have incentive... martyrdom so your heart may continue. Burned, bruised, wrent, but living as it has outside of you for quite sometime now.”

 

“John.” Quiet reverence filled the barely audible murmur, the tension palatable. He locked eyes with Moriarty as he internally warred against the knowledge that his life, would indeed, be forfeit. His mind railing against what were new paths of logic, new corridors with abrupt ends causing him to laugh mirth bubbling above the surface knowing he, at the very least knew John would live. Moriarty had once again underestimated him.

“Just. So.” Ecstatic unholy fervor gripped Moriarty’s features, his eyes gleaming brightly with promise. “Your death is the only thing that’s going to call off what I have planned for your dear doctor, your savior, and your keeper. Poetic is it not? Sentiment being your downfall? I thought you’d just love that. The angels never win Sherlock, too bad you chose the losing side.”

“Oh, I may be on the side of the angels,” Words spoken without levity, the weight of the Browning a physical manifestation of their sincerity. “But do not think, _for one moment_ , that I am one.”  

The shot rang clear, dissipating as Moriarty crumpled to the gravel topped rooftop, as his last aborted attempts of breathing left his body. Crimson pooled over the midnight blue suit, ran rivulets through the pebbles as his eyes crinkled in earnest, the smile genuine. He gently kneeled beside his adversary, offering his hand in honor of a game well played.

“Thank you, bless yo-”

 

As Moriarty’s eyes became unseeing his last word unfinished, Sherlock forced his transport to move against it’s will. Every biological self-preservative alarm peeling clearly through the halls of his mind in a cacophonous rage, failure knowingly imminent,   _82 percent chance of failure_ , he had prepared for this though. It was purely a mental exercise to recall, relax, as he kept forward motion to the edge of the roof. One short step, _deep breath_ , just one more as the air resistance lost its viscous hold, _arch position_ , and he would fall. His mobile rings, heralding his doctor’s return.

“John.” 

_Never a word so endearing._

“Sherlock? Everything alright? You sound-”

“Stop there. Look up, John.”

He saw the doctor moving purposefully toward the back entrance for swifter access to the lab area. The doctor stilled at his askance and began to look along the windows up the facade, when they reached their destination of the roofline, he could hear an abortive noise through the connection. He raised his hand in supplication and comfort toward the one he held most dear. This man was indeed his heart, his Atlas, _true north_ , his compass.

“Oh God...no...No Sherlock this...this is _not_ an answer.”

“Please, stay exactly where you are. Do this for me?” Tears welled hot coursing down to cool against his skin. The frantic pace of chemicals coursed through his veins icing his flesh in sheer raw instinctive panic. “Please, John, this- it’s my note.”

“Leave a note- Damnit Sherlock. No! I’m-”

 

_Deep breath._

 

“Goodbye, John.”

 


End file.
